


Death Comes to Hermione Granger

by ProfessorSarcastic



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogswatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorSarcastic/pseuds/ProfessorSarcastic
Summary: Hermione Granger receives unexpected visitors on Christmas morning.





	Death Comes to Hermione Granger

The young man screamed from the bed—a howl so furious and feral, and so unlike his usual voice, that his friend cringed. Hurriedly, she brought the bowl of water to his bedside.

His voice changed to a child’s. “Mummy,” he sobbed. “Mummy.”

She blinked back her tears—there was no time for them—and began to sponge the cold water on his head and face. He was hot, dangerously hot—and she didn’t know how to stop it. She lifted his arm and sponged the inside of his wrist, looking at the puncture marks on the arm.

The snake must have poisoned him. Dittany wouldn’t heal that. She’d have to brew an antidote. 

HO HO HO.

She whirled and screamed,“Protego!”

But as the Shield went up, she waved it away and stared into the face of Death.

HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER, AGED EIGHTEEN?

“Yes,” she answered. “You’ve come for Harry.” She took a deep breath, bit her lip to stop the tears, and stood aside. 

Then she asked, because she had to know, “Why are you dressed as Father Christmas?”

Death dressed as Father Christmas. It sounded like some joke Fred and George would cook up. But Fred and George didn’t know where they were, and the twins would have at least done a better job with the costume: Death’s curly beard hung askew on only one of its ear hooks, and the pillow was sagging rather low over the hips. Besides, even with Polyjuice Potion, Hermione didn’t think anyone could produce that voice.

The red-robed figure seemed taken aback; the blue eyes—if those glowing lights could properly be called eyes—blinked. WHO IS FATHER CHRISTMAS?

An ugly, middle-aged man dressed as a parody of one of Father Christmas’s helpers popped out from behind the red robes. He held a meat pie in his hand and spoke with his mouth full. “Probably the local version, master. You’re a witch, ain’t you, miss?”

“Of course, I’m a witch,” Hermione said blankly.

AH. THAT EXPLAINS IT.

“Explains what?” Hermione asked, bewildered.

“How you can see him,” said the little man. “You’re a witch. First Sight and all that.”

I HAVE NOT COME FOR HARRY JAMES POTTER, AGED SEVENTEEN. THAT IS . . . ER . . . I’M ON ANOTHER JOB. 

“Another job?” Hermione asked. What other job could Death possibly have? “And why are you dressed as Father Christmas?”

I AM THE HOGFATHER, AND I HAVE COME TO FILL YOUR STOCKINGS AND EAT YOUR PORK PIE AND DRINK YOUR SHERRY. WELL, ALFRED HERE WILL DO THE EATING AND DRINKING PART. HAPPY HOGSWATCH. HO HO HO. 

Fragments started coalescing in Hermione’s brain. Hogswatch. Her parents had bought her a series of novels about three witches, and that series mentioned Hogswatch. Hermione didn’t remember a Hogfather, but did recall that witches weren’t supposed to go out on Hogswatch, and that Nanny Ogg used it as an excuse to stay home, have a party, and drink. Witches in those books, Hermione remembered, could see Death.

“You’re from the Discworld.” Hermione stopped herself before adding the word, “books.” She couldn’t imagine that anyone—let alone Death—would like to be told that they were a fictional character. “How did you get here? This is Earth.”

I GO EVERYWHERE. 

“Master’s got temporal and spatial immunity, you see,” babbled the little man, Alfred. He winked at Hermione. “Nothing to worry about, miss. And the Hogfather goes everywhere too, everywhere there’s Hogswatch—”

Several words and ideas linked together in Hermione’s head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In Discworld, Hogswatch was a winter holiday; when Hermione first commented on the (very bad) costume, Alfred had said Father Christmas was the “local version.” 

“Are you . . . do you normally act as the Hogfather?” Hermione asked.

NO, said Death. I AM FILLING IN FOR HIM TONIGHT. HE IS . . . UNAVAILABLE.

“Oh,” said Hermione. “That’s very good of you.” She supposed it would be tactless—and given the evidence, probably wrong—to tell Death that Father Christmas was a myth. Death—the figure with the scythe, anyway—was supposed to be a myth too.

And strange how Death himself didn’t frighten her at all. Her heart had pounded in her ears when she saw Nagini gripping Harry in her teeth, her limbs had felt frozen when she had seen Voldemort, but here she was staring Death in the face—literally—and it was like talking to a very old, if slightly dotty, friend.

HAVE YOU BEEN A GOOD GIRL THIS YEAR?

Taken aback, Hermione found her mind flooded with all the things that had happened since last Christmas. Arguments, constant arguments, with Ron and Harry. Obliviating her parents and sending them away. Stunning, kidnapping, and impersonating those poor people at the Ministry. Endangering all those Muggleborns. Not to mention trespassing and destruction of property and God knew what else. “Not really, no.”

Death seemed to stare at her. THAT IS NOT ACCURATE. I CAN SEE YOU HAVE BEEN A GOOD GIRL, AND A VERY BRAVE ONE. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE FOR HOGWATCH—ER, WHAT IS IT CALLED HERE?

Hermione blinked away tears. “Christmas,” she choked. “And I—you can’t give me what I want. You can’t end this thing with Voldemort or bring Ron back or make Harry well or make it safe so I can see my parents again . . .”

“Well, it looks like we’re through here, then, master. Where’s our pork pie?” Alfred demanded. “And the turnips for the piggies? And the sherry?”

QUIET, ALFRED, said Death. He looked around—if those blue glowing spots were eyes—and Hermione knew there wasn’t much to see in the tent: threadbare chairs, an empty table and cupboard, a jar of blue flames valiantly trying to heat the place, Harry on a rumpled bunk without enough blankets. 

YOU ARE CORRECT, said Death. I CANNOT GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT. BUT I CAN GIVE SOME THINGS YOU NEED.

Death reached into his sack, and suddenly the empty table was filled with food—vegetables, meat, and fruit in tins, jars of soups and stews, boxes of pasta and porridge and cereals, milk in hermetically sealed cartons, even tea and jam and biscuits and bars of Honeyduke’s chocolate. It was easily enough food to last a month, even if Ron had been with them. Then Death reached into his sack and piled onto the threadbare chairs a couple of new sleeping bags, a package of wool socks each for both Harry and Hermione, two sets of skier’s long underwear. Then came a stack of books—several volumes on Defense, one on Runes, the current issues of Transfiguration Today and Advances in Charms, Matthew Selwyn’s history of Defensive Magic in the Second World War, even some Muggle paperbacks: an oddly named _Jingo_ and—Hermione had to smile— _Hogfather_. And last but not least, there were two paper-wrapped bundles that looked suspiciously like they had somehow come from Mrs. Weasley, with both their names on them.

NOW FOR THE BOY, said Death.

Hermione’s heart thudded in panic— _but he said he hadn’t come for Harry!_ —then she remembered that Death had just left presents for him. If logic weren’t enough, Alfred protested, “That ain’t our job, master! You can’t go healing the sick and making everything better!”

THE HOGFATHER CAN, Death said. He turned to Hermione. IS THERE NOT A TRADITION OF MIRACLES AT THIS TIME OF YEAR ON YOUR WORLD?

“Yes,” said Hermione.

THERE YOU ARE THEN, Death said as if this settled the argument, and turned back to Harry. He seemed to examine him minutely, then he straightened abruptly. THIS BOY IS NOT ILL.

Hermione blinked in confusion. “But he has a fever—”

THE FEVER DOES NOT PROCEED FROM SICKNESS, Death explained. THERE IS A FRAGMENT OF A FOREIGN SOUL ATTACHED TO HIS OWN. AND IT IS . . . MALIGNANT.

Hermione’s mind raced. “Oh, no, oh, no, no, no,” she moaned. “He made Harry into a Horcrux—”

“What’s a Hor—Horcrux?” Alfred said, the word new enough to stumble on.

“A fragment of a soul, split off from its owner,” Hermione recited automatically, “by means of a spell powered by murder, and usually hidden in an external object. The fragment of the soul ties the original owner to life so long as the Horcrux is safe. We knew he had six—we’ve got one, and destroyed two—but I didn’t know Harry was one of them—”

“Who’s he?” Alfred said suspiciously.

“He who—” Hermione began, and then felt suddenly stupid. How could she not say the name, when faced with Death? But the word wouldn’t pass her lips, and then Hermione remembered it wasn’t really his name, anyway. “His name is Tom Riddle. But as long as any of the Horcruxes are intact, he can’t be killed—and if we want to defeat him, we have to destroy all the Horcruxes—but the only way to destroy a Horcrux is to render it magically irreparable—” Hermione looked desperately at her friend, her best friend, and let out a keen. “We would have to kill Harry—”

_YOU_ WOULD HAVE TO KILL HIM, said Death. I HAVE OTHER MEANS. 

“How?” Hermione demanded. “That’s impossible—none of the books even theorized any way to remove a Horcrux from its host without destroying it!”

I AM THE REAVER OF SOULS, said Death simply. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a bundle of cloth, which he unrolled. Inside where a bunch of miniature scythes, ranging from about the size of hammer to tiny ones no larger than sewing needles. Death chose one about the size of a surgeon’s scalpel, held it near Harry’s forehead, and swung. 

Hermione saw a flash of green, which Death caught in what passed for his hand. He reached beneath the red robe and pulled out an hourglass. Hermione could read Voldemort’s name—his real name—on it. Death nudged the green bit inside the hourglass, where it glowed momentarily. THAT SHOULD DO IT. YOU SEE, HE NO LONGER ILL.

Harry sighed deeply, turned his head, and rolled over, as if he were asleep. Hermione held her breath until Harry took his next one.

Hermione turned back to Death. “Will this sever the connection between Harry and Tom Riddle?”

NOT IMMEDIATELY. THE CONNECTION BETWEEN SOULS ALSO LINKED THE MINDS. BUT IT WILL FADE EVENTUALLY.

Hermione looked at the hour glass carefully. “What will you do with it?”

I WILL RELEASE IT AT THE PROPER TIME. 

Hermione was fine with that. But she was thinking. “There’s another fragment of that soul in the locket in my bag. Can you remove that one too?”

Death snapped the bones of his fingers, and the Slytherin locket appeared in his hand. He examined it carefully and said, NO. I CAN ONLY REMOVE SOULS FROM BODIES. YOU MUST ELIMINATE THIS ONE YOURSELF. BUT TAKE CARE. THIS SOUL IS EVIL.

He held out the locket to Hermione, who took it and placed it back in the beaded bag. “Thank you,” she said. What could you call Death? “Sir. Thank you for everything. Happy Christmas.”

HAPPY CHRISTMAS, said Death. He said the word slowly, as if trying it out. HO HO HO.

“Are you sure you ain’t got any sherry?” Alfred said hopefully.

Hermione actually laughed. “Quite sure.”

“Worth a try.” He tugged his hat politely. “Happy Hogswatch, miss. Time to go, master.”

Death nodded, then moved across the room oven and paused. THERE IS NO CHIMNEY.

“No,” Hermione said regretfully. “And I’m afraid you can’t go up my flame jar. How did you get in?”

I WAS SIMPLY HERE, said Death.

“Perhaps you could use the door?” Hermione suggested.

THE DOOR. AH, YES.

Death had paused at the door. THERE IS NO DOORKNOB.

“It’s a tent, master,” Alfred explained.

SUSAN SAYS I SHOULD USE THE DOORKNOB WHEN I PASS THROUGH A DOOR.

“Here, sir,” Hermione said kindly, opening the flap of the tent. Had Susan appeared in one of the books?

THANK YOU, Death said, passing through and hoisting his bag. Then he paused. YOU WILL NEED A BIGGER BAG. Death snapped his fingers. HO HO HO.

Outside, a pig snorted. A pig? thought Hermione.

Then Harry moaned on the bed. “Harry?” she called, looking back at him.

Harry groaned again. Hermione rushed over, but he no longer seemed feverish, just . . . restless and still asleep. A cold blast made her shiver and made Harry shake on the bed, and when Hermione looked, the tent flap was open and fluttering in the wind. Hermione looked out before she secured it.

As the red sun rose, she saw no trace of a pig, or of footprints, or of pie crumbs—no sign whatsoever that Death, and his helper Alfred, had ever passed through this door. No sign whatsoever—except a huge pile of food on the table, a dozen books, new socks and sleeping bags . . . 

And hope, grim hope brilliant and red as the Christmas sun. Hermione had seen the remaining sand in Tom Riddle’s hour glass. Death was coming for Voldemort, and soon.


End file.
